Callisto
by Tea Theory
Summary: In Harry's 5th year, Dumbledore hires an unlikely Defense professor—the Dark Lord's son. Unable to support the man's atrocities but unwilling to turn his back on his father, this new professor takes on the hardest challenge of all: saving Lord Voldemort. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

I know that OCs are less popular than Filch, but I had to. Seriously. This plot was begging on its metaphysical hands and knees to be written. I would have made Harry Voldie's son if I liked Harry's speech mannerisms, but I didn't because Harry stutters.

Now, for some conventional warnings: This contains spoilers through book 5 and regarding Voldemort's quasi immortality and slash. Because it's hot. Not the spoilers, the slash. No incest, though, if you're worried about the father son thing. I'm explicit when I need to be, though I don't recommend you skip because it's usually for the plot or character development.

I'll also have to warn you that while I try to stick with the books as much as possible **(as in all significant events of the first four books have occurred)**, for the purposes of this fic, I had to give Voldie a heart. Sorry. I've also changed the number of Horcruxes he has to make sure he isn't too dehumanized. I do, however, try to keep him as in character as possible as a seriously twisted and sadistic non-psychopath/sociopath.

Any comments/concerns/conundrums/compliments/complaints/computers? Leave a review because high review count attracts readers and makes me feel good.

Oh, also, I disclaim. On with the story.

* * *

**Chapter One**

Albus Dumbledore had not set foot in the States for some time now, and he must admit that it had grown into quite the smoggy place in his fourteen year absence. While London could hardly call itself the role model for pollution reduction, at least its wizarding societies were kept proper and trim. Now, as he strolled down the city's famous magical Seven Point Two Six Avenue, he found it hard to say the same for New York. It was sad, really, that the only powerful country without a dark lord to fend off didn't have the time to clean up a bit.

Fortunately, American urban planners were as organized as their streets were messy, because it took Dumbledore a grand total of four minutes and forty seven seconds to locate his final destination. The numbers would have doubled, or tripled, or maybe quadrupled depending on the day of the week, had he been in Diagon Alley. Not that there were many innocuously light blue Muggle-looking townhouses in Diagon Alley.

The one in front of him was particularly Muggle-looking, Dumbledore was happy to note, and hopefully as innocuous as it seemed. Preparing the twinkle in his eyes, he rang the doorbell. The door opened promptly, and he was met by a young man who looked to be in his early twenties.

As a rather wizened and intelligent old man, Dumbledore had learned to be good at hiding his emotions, so it wasn't with difficulty that he suppressed his slight trepidation at the sight before him. The boy he'd last seen as an eight year old child had grown into his chillingly familiar, darkly beautiful features, and if the almost palpable hum of magic was anything to go by, into his inherited power as well. If his eyes had not held the gentle, surprised curiosity they did, Dumbledore would have had his wand out by now. Instead, he smiled.

"Good evening, my boy! You've grown quite a bit since I last saw you."

Under the doorway, the boy's eyebrows knitted slightly. "Good evening, sir," he began politely. "Have we…met before?"

"Yes, we have, though I'm afraid you will find some trouble recalling," replied Dumbledore. A suspicious hesitation crossed the boy's features, and he continued. "I took your memories, you see."

The older wizard watched in inevitable admiration as surprise and understanding dawned with unnatural speed in the other's eyes. "The plane crash, I suppose?" asked the boy, guarded and testing, but also like he had been waiting for this wizard to show up on his doorstep.

Dumbledore wasn't sure whether or not to be pleased that the young man had also inherited his father's intelligence. It was too late to turn back now, though, so as benevolently and apologetically as he could, he said, "Yes, the one that never happened."

A quick pause passed. Then, the boy stepped back and said, "Will you come in?"

Of course, Dumbledore did.

The interior of the home was not as nearly as Muggle as the exterior, but it did have its nonmagical touch. The walls were a welcoming burgundy, and the floor an earthly length of polished wood. Instead of the traditional magical portraits, beautiful paintings decorated the walls. As Dumbledore was ushered to the living room, a family portrait with a familiar couple caught his attention. A smile turned his lips as he recognized them; it was the Muggle couple that he'd left the boy with fourteen years ago, when the boy's biological father fell to baby Harry. As long as the boy had learned to love them, he would never follow his father's footsteps—and judging from the happiness emanating from the picture, he had.

After a few minutes of silent contemplation, the focus of his thoughts returned to the room with tea. Dumbledore didn't know how the boy knew he'd wanted tea, but took it with thanks anyway. They settled into two opposing sofas.

Dumbledore hummed happily as he drank—the liquid was very saturated with sugar, by the way, just the way he liked it—and his company sat in silence. Apparently, one thing that the boy had not inherited father was the man's impatience. Dumbledore decided not to push it anyway and eventually declared, "I'm here to give back the memories I took from you fourteen years ago."

Silver eyes widened, then narrowed in a familiar manner. Dumbledore recognized young Tom Riddle's calculating face.

"You are Albus Dumbledore."

Ah. So it seemed the boy was an exception to the famed American ignorance.

"I am."

"I'm curious," started the boy, not without cautious suspicion. "What is a great wizard such as yourself doing with my memories, and what could you possibly have to gain from leaving a political war zone to return them?"

Dumbledore smiled. "The answers lie in your memories, dear boy. Will you take them?"

The young man leaned back, looking wary. _As he should_, thought Dumbledore, because if the boy did remember the first eight years of his life, the blissful, easy prestige he lived with now would be replaced with the pains and conflicts of war. But that was what was meant to be, anyway.

"Should I?" asked the boy softly, though Dumbledore could already see in his eyes and hear in his voice what his choice was. "Would you?"

"Yes, and no," Dumbledore replied honestly. "You have a role that should be played—that must be played. But it is a difficult one. The truth will hurt you more than anything you have experienced in the life you know now."

Eyes cast downwards as the boy laughed. It was such a pretty, pure sound, one that his father would have never been able to make. Or rather, would never be able to make, with his recent return during the past Triwizard Tournament and all.

"The truth tends to hurt, sir. That's what makes it so desirable. We're all masochists on the inside, you know," he joked, relaxing against the sofa. Dumbledore recognized the action as preparation. "I will take them."

"Then, my boy, will you make me a promise before I give your memories to you?"

An elegant eyebrow arched in question.

"Tell me."

"I heard you are quite the brilliant Magic Specialist, yes? Well, Hogwarts is in dire need of a Defense professor. Our last one turned out to be rather…unreliable, you see. I would appreciate it if you would take the position for this upcoming year."

The boy paused to think. He thought quickly, Dumbledore noted, because after a short silence, he asked, "Given what you know about me, do you think _I_ would appreciate the position?"

Dumbledore felt the twinkle in his eyes fade. Grimly, he responded, "Yes, I believe you will appreciate the position, but not for the reasons you are currently imagining."

"I am not imagining any reasons," said the other lightly. "I'll take your word for it, though. I accept."

The older wizard nodded.

"Then I suppose this is as a good a time as ever."

The younger wizard only smiled and closed his eyes.

Dumbledore pointed his wand, focused his magic, and casted.

"_Restituo."_

The careful frown on the young man's face was the only sign that the spell had worked. But then, he leaned forward, leaned over, silently, until his face was hidden by his black locks and pale hands. Any eye less trained than Dumbledore's would have missed the barely perceptible tremor of his body.

For the longest while, the only sound in the room was the boy's low, suppressed, ragged breathing. Until the breaths became smooth again, Dumbledore dared not change that.

When they did, he called gently, "Callisto."

Callisto Arius, the son of the Dark Lord Voldemort, the Order's greatest risk and Harry Potter's biggest hope, did not respond immediately. Dumbledore didn't think he would answer at all, but then he heard an empty, singular laugh. The boy lifted himself, relaxed against the sofa again, impeccably dry eyes looking like he may or may not have cried a bit. It was an unusual and unnerving picture.

Unpredictable, controlled, and eerily perfect. Just like his father.

"Well, I didn't really enjoy that. This," he said calmly. "I guess I'm not a masochist."

"Life would be too easy if we all were," replied Dumbledore. "Do you understand, now?"

"Most of it," said the boy. Then, his voice softened, and his features looked strangely vulnerable as he murmured, "So it's true, then? He's alive."

"He's always been alive, my boy, just…" Dumbledore made a gesture with his hand, and finished, "…not there. Until recently, anyway."

A shaky sigh left the boy's lips. The relieved tenderness frightened Dumbledore. Quietly, lids closed, the wizard whispered, "I can't."

Though no request had been made, Dumbledore knew what the boy referred to. He couldn't help the instinctive tightening of his fingers around his wand as he said, "He will kill the people you love. He has already destroyed too many lives. Please, Callisto, I know it is difficult, but _you _know what is right."

"I can't," he repeated, catching ancient blue eyes with young silver ones. "I can't."

"Then you are supporting him. Caleb, you are supporting his crimes," said Dumbledore pleadingly, hoping that the boy's name of his past reality would remind him of the love he'd learned as the treasured son of the Muggle couple—of the reason why Voldemort could not be allowed to continue.

"I don't," countered the wizard.

"Then stop him."

The boy's eyes lit with a sudden accusatory fire. Dumbledore almost recoiled at the harsh, silver ferocity. "You want to kill him," he shot back. The older wizard tried to protest, but was cut off. "Don't tell me differently. You are a great and a good man, sir. So you plan to destroy Voldemort, because it is your responsibility to. You can't risk doing anything else. You can't afford to."

The truth of the boy's words rang loud and clear. Dumbledore couldn't deny it, couldn't even move properly under the spell of the angry charm of Tom Riddle's son, so he sat silently and listened.

"But he is my father. I might only have eight years of hazy memories, just returned to me at that, but I remember him being my father. How could you ask a son to kill his father? How could I kill him?"

"He is beyond saving, my boy," replied Dumbledore sadly. He'd tried and failed, and like the boy himself said, to risk it all on something so improbable would be foolish. It would be wrong.

But the boy didn't seem to accept that.

The ferocity disappeared from his eyes, and was replaced with a gentle sincerity. "Did you see my memories when you took them, sir?"

He had. He'd seen things he'd first thought were distorted by the perception of a child. He'd seen the cruel, cold, evil Dark Lord laugh and smile and love. He'd seen _Voldemort _murmur words like _my beloved, my beautiful, my heart _and mean them_. _He'd seen a man that was supposed to be a psychopath love and give like he had nothing else in the world to love and give to, and really, had that not been the case? He'd witnessed the impossible in the boy's memories, so he nodded.

"Then you know that's not true," said the boy.

And he did. But he shook his head regardless, because he was a good man who also needed to be a great man.

"We can't risk it."

"_You _can't," clarified the boy. "So let me."

"This is war," said Dumbledore, warning the determined light in the other's eyes. "You will die if you fail." _Or if we succeed._

"Then we have an easy solution, correct?" The unease, the anger, the tenderness had all disappeared from the boy's expression, leaving him looking nothing but confident and relaxed. "I just have to _not_ fail."

Despite the absolute absurdity of the notion of saving Voldemort, Dumbledore found himself almost believing the boy. He promised success the way his father had promised power and revenge, and his father had done the highly improbable, after all. Perhaps this boy, who had both a Dark Lord's talent and what seemed to be a very human heart, would give the Order a run for their galleons. Dumbledore certainly hoped so, because wouldn't that be the ideal outcome? The war would end, and Harry would—

Ah, Harry. The prophecy.

_Neither can live while the other survives. _

_But you will fail, _Dumbledore thought, because Harry deserved to be the survivor. The world could not lose Harry and to keep Voldemort. For the smaller good, the greater good, and all the good in between, it couldn't happen.

Dumbledore couldn't bring himself to say the words, though. If his conclusions were correct, which they usually were, then Callisto's death would be necessary for Voldemort's own demise. It hardly seemed appropriate to deny a young man, whose greatest fault seemed to be the misfortune of his birth, what could be his only chance of survival. Which, being a chance that the Order could not allow, was hardly a chance to begin with.

Thus, Dumbledore only said sadly, "I wish you the best."

"Thank you," replied the boy. "So, Hogwarts?"


	2. Chapter 2

G'morning! This chapter ended up shorter than I intended it to be, because I'm going traveling with limited internet access tomorrow and I wanted to get an update out before then. Basically, I will be doing much writing while I traverse the Eastern world, but I probably won't be able to post said writing for a while (I will try my best to find the internet hotspots, though!).

Hopefully, I'll get half this story done over the summer and finish the other half while I'm feeding you guys weekly updates of whatever I have. No guarantees, though, if my plane crashes or something. Or if I just get too caught up in the scenery.

Anyway, enjoy Cal's intro to Hogwarts and some familiar faces! I have to disclaim majorly this time, because I took some lines for the Welcoming Speech directly from Rowling's text.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

As soon as the elderly wizard left, his carefully constructed control gave out.

Cal—once short for Caleb, but now he knew that the e and b didn't have a place in in his birth name—fell against the door and stared at the hall before him. The familiar patterns didn't register the way they usually did; in fact, they hardly registered at all.

He was lost.

Magic had always fascinated him, because it was meant to be amazing. He expected it to be amazing. But today, magic had ripped away everything he thought he had and gave him back everything he didn't know he'd lost in a marvelously terrible two seconds. That was beyond amazing, and bordered on horrific.

Who knew that the almost fantastical Dark Lord of Britain, a passing story on old newspapers and outdated discussions, was his father? That the man he'd once mocked as a travesty of a human being was the same man who'd held him, raised him, taught him, loved him? That the missing eight years of his life hid so, so much dark and painful knowledge?

Well, clearly, Dumbledore had. Perhaps his caretaker, too, if she wasn't lying dead in Azkaban right now, or with a set of fabricated memories.

What about his father?

The news had traveled to America rather quickly that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (a title that Cal found absolutely ridiculous, about a hundred times more so now that he actually had license to care) had allegedly returned from the dead. Most of the articles had been loaded with skepticism and mockery of the supposedly lying Boy-Who-Lived, but Cal hadn't given a damn about the details until now. Now, he couldn't stop wondering how. Whether or not he was alright. Whether or not he knew what happened to his son.

_Whether or not he still cared._

Cal frowned, and the thought left as quickly as it came.

His father cared. Of course he did. He'd asked himself the same question when he had the famous Dumbledore sitting in front of him, and Cal had answered yes because he could feel it—

He could feel it.

His hand grabbed at his heart at the realization that he could _feel _it. Now.

That yearning emptiness and anger and fear and love that had always been smothered away behind everything else, that invading emotion that had been growing increasingly stronger and suddenly spiked this past June, that was his _father_. He couldn't, for the life of him, figure out the mechanics behind the emotional link right now, but it wasn't too surprising given that the Dark Lord had twisted magic in all sorts of funky ways before. And it didn't matter, because Cal knew he still cared and felt, and that was enough for him to go on.

That was all he needed, for now.

So he pushed away his misgivings about his own morality, and his own selfishness, and his wrong willingness to forgive murder and torture, and started planning. It was too early in the evening to be reflecting on the meaning of life, and the summer was only a few days from its end. He'd need to be in England by the weekend to acquaint—reacquaint, actually—himself and prepare for professorship.

His Muggle parents would need to know the general, harmless information, at least. Dumbledore had mentioned before leaving that he'd done some magic on them fourteen years ago to ensure a smooth transition for Cal into his new life. To their knowledge, they'd adopted a British child whose parents had died in their vacation flight to the States, and who just happened to be magical. Cal thought it was all very smart of Albus Dumbledore to immerse his heart with the Muggles so that he couldn't ever find logic in supporting his father's beliefs, but he was a slight bit resentful about the manipulation.

And then there was the matter of resigning from his current post and telling his colleagues that he'd have to drop their current project on space warps. Oh, god, that would be painful. He didn't think his friends would be very happy about his sudden leave either.

It would be worth it, though.

His memories told him so.

* * *

On the first of September, Cal showed up at Hogwarts Castle under glamours. While packing his things last week, one of his new memories popped up and told him that his relation to his father was rather visible, so he'd touched up the angles of his face and the curves of his features a bit. The difference was not so drastic that his acquaintances wouldn't recognize him, but enough so that anyone without prior knowledge would not be able to make the connection between him and the Dark Lord.

Hogwarts turned out to be grander than he expected. It was beautiful in an ancient way that he'd never seen in America, and spilled warm, loving, welcoming magic. He felt strangely protected when he'd stepped past the wards, and another memory of his father murmuring fondly about the great establishment of his predecessor passed his mind. Cal couldn't help but smile; if the magical castle could recognize the heirs of its founders, maybe it could feel his impressed admiration, too. It was a stretch, though.

When he arrived at the gates, he found Dumbledore waiting. The Headmaster gave him a warm welcome and didn't mention his lateness, and the whole scenario had him feeling rather honored. His luggage was charmed to his chambers once they set foot inside the castle—which turned out to be far more magical on the inside than on the outside, with the laughing portraits and moving stairs and disembodied spirits and all. He then followed Dumbledore to an imposing set of doors, which led to an even more imposing room.

"Our Great Hall," introduced the wizard as they entered. Cal felt his breath catch as he took in the candlelit night sky—a charmed ceiling, he knew—and the splendid architecture. Golden goblets and plates and five long tables, all empty but for the one spread horizontally at the end, filled the room. It hardly looked like a school's dining hall.

"Beautiful," he murmured, walking alongside the Headmaster, who seemed pleased by his admiration. He would have continued to stare at the hanging lights, too, if the curiosity oozing from the far end of the room hadn't caught his attention.

Behind the fifth table was a row of men and women, chattering politely between sending questioning glances at him now and then. Cal remembered seeing them stand when they'd first entered, but he'd dismissed the action in favor of the room itself. Now that he'd gotten over his initial awe, his eyes were immediately drawn to an alarming shade of pink worn by a stout, middle-aged woman near the left end.

It was her arrogant posture, her unnaturally offsetting smile, and her completely discomfiting stare that made Cal decide they would not be friends. She wasn't too easy on the eyes either, so Cal averted his with a polite smile and nod. He glanced down the row, at the empty chair that was probably his, and then at the darkly dressed man beside it.

Their eyes caught.

Cal's memory jolted at the black, tunneling eyes, the rigid, cold features, the contrast of pale skin and dark hair. He'd seen the same reserved man through feverous, dying eyes long ago, carefully feeding him disgusting potions in a strange, ritualistic manner while his father watched. He'd seen him next speaking in quiet tones to the Dark Lord behind the cover of a barely ajar door. And then, finally, he'd seen him by Albus Dumbledore's side, cursing his caretaker unconscious and watching him with fury and agony.

The man, whose name he'd never heard spoken, looked like he recognized Cal too, but beyond that his expression was unreadable. Cal probably should have felt anger at the person who betrayed him, but in all honesty his actions hadn't resulted in much harm and Cal was never one to hold unnecessary grudges. Besides, the man had probably once saved his life. So he offered the familiar professor a smile. The man's lips only twitched in response.

"Thank you for waiting, professors," began Dumbledore once they arrived at the table. "Please, sit."

They did.

"Well then," he continued, "It looks like we are all assembled."

He was met by a murmur of agreement and a few nods. Cal didn't say anything about the third empty seat next to Dumbledore's throne-like chair; it was probably an intentional absence.

"Professor Rivers," said Dumbledore, using Cal's Muggle surname as they'd agreed was best, "Let's seat ourselves before the students do, shall we?"

Cal gave a nod for the affirmative. He'd been expecting some introductions, but he guessed his late arrival made those a bit difficult to fit into the schedule. Sure enough, a thud behind him signaled the opening of the Hall doors before he'd taken a step towards his seat. The noise of chatter seeped into the room and grew louder, and by the time Cal had slipped into his seat next to the dark man and another sort of tiny man, the Hall was filling with several hundred students in black uniform.

Their lively animation was infectious. Cal ran his gaze over the group, from smiling face to laughing face to the occasional smirk or glare, until he was interrupted by the squeaky voice at his side.

"So you are the new professor."

He turned to the short, brown-eyed man next to him.

"Yes, Caleb Rivers," he greeted, extending a hand. "Nice to meet you."

The small man's eyes widened a bit in surprise, probably at his accent. "Filius Flitwick, Charms professor," he returned. "I must say that I wasn't expecting the Headmaster to hire an American."

Cal smiled. "Well, that makes two of us."

"You must be good, then. Professor Dumbledore always knows what he's doing, after all."

"I imagine so," replied Cal. To his right, he felt the silent attention of the familiar professor. Deciding that he'd need more allies for his future endeavors than enemies, he turned to the quiet man.

"Professor."

The dark eyes snapped quickly at his greeting, but his face turned with careful control—almost like a guarded, cautious feline. It was a little frightening. Enchanting, at the same time.

"It's good to see you again," said Cal.

A flash of uncertainty and confusion passed the professor's expression. It settled on mistrust as he replied, soft, rigid, and controlled, "Yes. Professor…Rivers."

Clearly, the nameless professor didn't return his sentiment.

Cal would have continued the conversation to fish for a name, but the Hall chose that moment to fall quiet. Looking back to the front, Cal saw a group of young students—the first years, he bet—standing nervously before the tables. At the center of attention was a stern-looking witch, holding a black hat in her hand. With the entire Hall watching, she set the hat on a stool Cal didn't notice had been conjured.

A few moments of silence passed. Then, the hat twitched.

It started singing.

Cal listened in wonder. The black hat sang the story he had read as a child, about the founders and the houses, about their disputes and their falling, and then, about the dangers of their decision. When the hat began its warnings, Cal started wondering why _his _wizarding school in America never had wise, prophetic singing apparel. He was a bit jealous.

At the end of the song, applause followed and the hat fell still again. The witch at its side looked down at a conjured parchment.

"Abane, Heldina," she called, and a girl stepped up timidly.

As the proceedings went on, Cal found himself entertained by the Hat's mutterings to silent thoughts. He'd read about this Sorting Ceremony, though vaguely as his textbook never really got into the details of how it was done. For the most part, he could guess a student's House before the hat declared it—reading people cold had always been a good skill of his, even if he'd spent the first eight years of his life prohibited from interacting with too many of them. It must be something he inherited, he thought. He'd realized over the past couple of days that he inherited quite a lot. Or maybe there was just a lot to inherit.

When the Ceremony ended, Dumbledore stood.

"To our newest students—welcome to Hogwarts," he began. "To everyone else, welcome back. There is a time for speech-making, but that time is not now. Tuck in!"

For the umpteenth time, Cal watched in pleasant appreciation as heaps of well-arranged food appeared on the beautiful golden plates. Next to him, Flitwick broke into conversation with the woman sitting to his left. The nameless man ate silently, which wasn't unexpected at all. He even cut his food coldly, ate carefully, and sat rigidly. When he took a drink, Cal's eyes latched onto the telltale way his fingers curved and touched.

"You're a Potions master," he said suddenly, stating what he'd suspected was true when he'd first seen the man.

The professor stopped moving.

The silent affirmative was what connected the pieces.

_Of course, _thought Cal, eyes wide. _Why didn't I realize earlier?_

"You're Severus Snape."

Severus Snape, the Death Eater who'd deflected to the Light as a Hogwarts professor. Cal had barely skimmed the tiny article that mentioned him in the New York Times, and the only reason he remembered it was because he'd been investigating variations in Veritaserum a few years ago and found a paper on it by the man. He couldn't remember being more impressed with anyone else's work, so, naturally, his brain retained all the information he had about the author. Of course, he hadn't had his British memories then so the pieces of the puzzle had been pretty disjointed until today.

"Yes," responded the wizard, sounding somewhat irritated. Sarcastically, he asked, "However did you figure that out?"

Cal ignored the tone and replied lightly, "Because you handle the silverware too well for anyone else."

"Really."

"Yes, really," he said, playing with his own fork. "You know, your work on the Truth Serum is very impressive. I'd have never imagined using unicorn veins to override the effects of insanity."

At last, some surprise and interest flitted across the dark man's features.

"I recommended unicorn blood," he murmured uncertainly.

"Yes, you did," replied Cal, cutting his pudding.

Snape frowned, as if in contemplation. Cal could almost read his mind—_But properly treated veins just might prevent color distortion._

Smiling, Cal glanced over the mass of students as he considered ways to pick up the conversation from there. There were infinite possibilities with this guy, this genius Potions master, so choosing took Cal a few seconds. But just when he'd decided on what to say, something else caught his attention.

Something green.

Brilliantly green.

A pair of eyes, set on a young, sculpted face that he remembered seeing in black and white. There was confusion, caution, curiosity etched onto those familiar features.

Cal felt his own face mirror that expression, because that boy was not normal. Not with the strange, unnatural sensation his eyes pulled from Cal. It wasn't anything unpleasant—actually, it was _very _pleasant—but he'd been raised by scientists, and he'd taken the nature of science to the world of magic. Anything without reasonable explanation behind it was not to be trusted.

This handsome boy was not to be trusted.

Perhaps the boy was thinking the same thing, because before the second had passed, he'd quickly turned away with an expression of bewilderment, and his hand on his forehead.

* * *

"Harry? Harry, what is it?"

Harry Potter blinked in confusion, shaking his head to make sure he wasn't imagining anything. He really ought to be used to surprises by now, but _that _was not expected. At all.

"Is it…You-Know-Who?"

"What?" said Harry, turning to the voice on his left. A very concerned Hermione stared back at him, her hands resting nervously on the table edge. "No, it's just…" he managed, but then he realized he didn't _what _it was. "I…I don't know, actually."

Ron, who had turned to look at him curiously across the table, asked, "Is your scar acting up again?"

"Yes, but it's…" Harry frowned, touching the lightning bolt on his forehead again. "It felt good."

His friends looked at him with wide, surprised eyes. Realizing how strange that must sound, that Voldemort's mark of death felt bloody _good_, Harry fixed up his words.

"I mean, it didn't hurt. It just sort of tingled."

Hermione raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "Tingled?"

"Yeah. I was just looking over there—" Harry tilted his head toward the professor's table, "—and the new professor saw me, and then my scar started getting this weird feeling."

"Which new professor?" asked Ron.

"The pretty one, obviously," said Hermione, rolling her eyes. "Do you think Harry would waste his time staring at the other one?"

"I wasn't staring at him," muttered Harry. His comment went by unnoticed as his two best friends started their banter.

"Well, yeah, seeing as guys are usually more attracted to women than men. Unless he's gay. You're not, are you, Harry?" asked Ron.

Hermione rolled her eyes again.

"Oh please, Ron. Even I can admire beautiful women. And not…toad-like men, for that matter."

Harry grinned a bit at her description of the pink professor. Toad-like was quite accurate. Ron probably thought so too, because he snuck a glance at the table at that comment, and grimaced. "I guess she is pretty unattractive."

"So," Harry interrupted, figuring that it was as good a time as ever to stop their quarrel before Ron decided to tack on some defensive retort to his comment, "Any idea what they're here for? The new professors, I mean."

"Maybe Dumbledore decided to put two professors on Defense Against the Dark Arts? Seeing how they keep dropping dead or crazy or something," said Ron.

"That's very unlikely," observed Hermione. "They'd be sitting next to each other if that were the case. She's all the way on the end."

"So, what, a new subject?"

"Maybe," shrugged Hermione to Ron's guess. "We'll find out soon enough."

She was right, of course. Eventually, the food was cleared and Dumbledore stood again.

"Now that we are all fed, I'd like to have your attention for some start-of-term notices," began the Headmaster. As Harry turned to listen, his eyes couldn't help slipping to the silver-eyed man behind him.

Hermione had been right; it was his physical appearance that had drawn Harry's eyes to the professor at first. He'd looked too young next to the well-aged and experienced Hogwarts professors at his side. That, and there was something about the way his features came together that set off alarms in his head, though Harry couldn't pinpoint what it was exactly. His beauty, which should have been nothing more than admirable, or desirable, seemed cold and dangerous—but there was absolutely nothing about his demeanor that supported the notion.

Then, there was the tingling scar.

Harry was so confused.

He continued to stare at the professor as if doing so would decipher some mysteries, until Dumbledore's words caught his attention again.

"We also have two staff changes this year," said the Headmaster. "It is my pleasure to introduce Professor Caleb Rivers, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

Harry felt a moment of surprise just as a quiet rustle of whispers went through the room. The mysterious, too young, eerily beautiful professor's name sounded so…plain. For both obvious reasons and some even he wasn't entirely sure of, Harry had been expecting something grander.

"We will also be welcoming Madam Dolores Umbridge," continued Dumbledore, voice now noticeably less pleased and even a bit dark, "Who has been appointed by the ministry as High Inquisitor. She will begin observing and assessing classes the day after tomorrow."

A much louder rustle filled the room, and Harry heard disdainful exclamations and confused questions at his own table. He turned to join them.

"High Inquisitor?" he whispered in disbelief.

Two seats down from Ron, Dean Thomas whispered back, "Yeah, it was in the Prophet this morning. Apparently, she's gonna 'address seriously failing standards at Hogwarts' or some other bullshit."

Vaguely, Harry remembered some students muttering about 'bloody ridiculous ministry ideas' and 'as if having Snape wasn't bad enough already' and 'turning Hogwarts upside down' earlier on, but he'd ignored the conversations to talk with Ron and Hermione. Now, he sincerely wished he had taken the time to prepare himself for the news.

Suddenly, the undercurrent of noise stopped as a high-pitched, horribly annoying voice interrupted Dumbledorewith a _hem-hem_. He was sure the silence was out of shock rather than respect for the lady, who had stood up behind her seat.

"Thank you, Headmaster, for your kind words. I am so thrilled to be back at Hogwarts and to see your smiling faces," she began in that unbelievably irritating voice. Harry wanted to curse her. Down the row, he noticed that the other professors weren't looking very pleased either. "I do remember my own years of studying in this castle quite well, and it is my pleasure to act as High Inquisitor of it for the Minister. I hope that we will be good friends as the year progresses."

Snickers came from the Weasley twins, and probably from another hundred students too.

"The Ministry of Magic has always considered your education to be of vital importance. As Undersecretary to the Minister, my presence here is proof of that. Each year, under the leadership of its Headmaster, Hogwarts has undergone changes to its academics, its culture, its students, and its standards. While the Minister and I applaud the school for its progress, we would like to remind all that not all progress is good progress, and not all progress is necessary.

"During my stay here, I hope to bring back to the school its longstanding traditions of excellence, by recognizing and reversing the changes that have come as errors of judgment, and, also, by establishing good progress. It is no easy challenge to undertake, but with the assistance of you, the students, and you, my dear colleagues—" She looked purposefully at the professors surrounding her, who stared back uncomfortably, or blankly, or irritably, or amusedly, "—I believe that we will succeed wonderfully."

With that, she sat down. The students wisely chose not to applaud.

"Thank you, Madam Umbridge," said Dumbledore, who looked unaffected by her hidden insults. "Now, as I was saying…"

Harry met the horrified expressions of his friends, and wanted to vomit at the prospect of spending entire classes with that woman. Speechless, he turned back to the professors' table, and found the new Defense professor saying something to Snape—to a smirking, _amused _Snape.

Maybe, just maybe, this was all just a dream.

* * *

**AN: **I'm really sorry about Umbridge. I know, I hate her too.

But! Now that you have taken ten or so minutes of you life to read, please take one more minute to review! It will make my day and you will be doing a good thing for the world. Even if you choose to tell me I suck.


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